


The Voice on the Radio and What It Said

by FrizzleLamb



Category: Survival-Quest Symbiont, Symbiont Series (Visual Novels)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Female Protagonist, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, POV Second Person, Protagonist is a Loner, based on a mobile game, more on friendship than romance tbh, pre-sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-07-17 09:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrizzleLamb/pseuds/FrizzleLamb
Summary: Whether it's to sleep for 8 hours or do homework, the last thing on your to-do list on that day never included receiving a strange transmission. When your newly-bought radio transceiver unexpectedly crackles at night, a voice calls out - and he's desperately asking for your help. Only you can't... unless you count giving the worst advices on how to survive a zombie breakdown in an underground facility.





	1. What You, The Reader, Did

**Author's Note:**

> Recently, I had just played this Russian text-based game called _Symbiont_ and, to simply put it, my brain just farted over itself ENTIRELY. Not only was it nicely translated (to English. I played the translated version), but I grew attached to the Dr. Martin Shepard himself.
> 
> Obviously, there will be spoilers, but since this is a canon re-write and occurs before _Symbiont 2_ (also, I haven't played that one, sadly), I'll be introducing things and events as it is from the game, but expanded, so that non-players can have a sense of the plot line. Also, I have this strong feeling that this kind of story has already been written before, but still, I hope you enjoy my overly flawed work!
> 
> (JUNE 2020 UPDATE: I wrote this back to a Y/N format. Goodbye, Shannon Dewey.)

When you received your first lunch money from your parents, it was near the end of your junior high school year, and the first thing you bought was a cheap hand-held, portable radio transceiver from your uncle's junkyard. Its matte-black color wasn't temptingly flashy, with stickers still stuck on it, advertising the words 'The country's BEST and TOP-SELLING WALKIE-TALKIE!' and 'FOR SALE!'. It was larger than the telephone handset at your house and had a long, swaying antenna mounted on top of it. You bought it without hesitation, handing over your grimy fifty dollars to your uncle in a hurry - but still managing to skip your 9 AM Biology class - unbeknownst to your mother and father.

Of course, the decision couldn't have been settled without the mind-boggling doubts. You had rethought of the possibilities of what you could do with the transceiver. You had thought of the what ifs - _what if I used it for my lunch instead? What if I didn't buy it and just stole it? God, what if, what if -_

Either way, your parents would kill you if they knew you used the money for anything else other than food for your stomach. You decided on hiding the truth - hiding the fact that you had been wasting fifty dollars of a week's worth of lunch money - to avoid death from the hands of your parents.

"Oh. A single walkie-talkie." The employee at the cashier removed the stickers, folded and lowered the antenna to its base, and placed the walkie-talkie carefully in a brown bag. His face had infinite questions written on it, but one that you were sure of was _why is this high-school student making such a stupid transaction?_

Well, curiosity _may_ kill the cat.

"Be careful with it," he told you. "That's not something you see everyday in school. Make sure they don't see that or they'll think of you as a spy, or something."

"Su-u-ure," you mocked. You kept the transceiver inside your shoulder bag, careful not to break it.

By the time you had returned to your school, it was just in time for, ironically, lunch. Your Biology teacher and your friends asked you where you had been, to which you had lamely answered "toilet... and the bread store, across town" and was given a much more difficult homework for Biology that had numbers that existed for no explainable reason, one hundred and three noogies, a red face, and a detention card.

You arrived home late too, but that was to be blamed on your grease-monkey uncle. When you passed by his stink-hole of a junkyard, he immediately spotted you from far away, like an eagle hunting for its prey. He then ordered you around the place either to disassemble car parts or slam down a customer that was trying to negotiate a five-dollar price from a bronze statue that costed seven dollars. These "business" negotiations were hard to disaffirm - usually, the customer would breakdown and cry - but your strategy was usually grabbing them by the back of their neck and plastering a giant sticker with a giant _NO_ on a poor man's forehead.

By 6 PM, you had reached the point of burnout. The sun had almost completed its setting, shining over the junkyard. You rested your back on a 60's model refrigerator, much to the chagrin of the junkyard employees who had told you that you could potentially ruin the pristine condition of the Collector's Edition fridge. You were certain that a fridge had more value than your worth.

You played with your thumbs, circling each fingernail. "Uncle Fern, if you give me more things to do, I might slowly turn into you," You laughingly told him, who was by one of the cashier counters flipping each paper dollar with his fat, grabby fingers.

He licked his thumb then continued to count the dollars on hand. "What, industrious? Handsome? Wealthy?"

"No..." You pretended to think hard, tapping a finger under your chin. "...bo-ring."

You received a playful smack on the head with a newspaper after You said that. Fortunately, it wasn't all too painful.

Without anything else to do, you twirled your fingers on your red hair, not minding the dirt under your fingernails. You pulled the walkie-talkie from the bag by the cashier counter. "Thanks for letting me buy this thing for cheap, by the way," you told him. Uncle Ferdinand Dewey wasn't the kindest nor the most easygoing person in town, but he was one of the easiest people to negotiate a price with. But this negotiation power works only with and if they were you. "Also, how do you use it without breaking it? The walkie-talkie, I mean?"

He groaned, muttering words under his breath. You had a feeling it was about the way you called walkie-talkies in such a manner that you knew had nothing wrong with it. He wiped his dirty and oiled hands against the apron hanging around his waist. An oil slick marked a stain on the whiteness of the apron. "Hand-held radio transceivers are _so-o-o_ simple. What you have to do is turn this thing, take this thin fiber, like this..." He pulled out the what you knew as the antenna. "And then once you hear this sorta _swi-i-i-ish_ sound, it's good to go. You gotta press that little button over there to talk, then release once you're done. Now try asking if there're any ghosts around."

You sneered your eyes at him. "Funny," you said. Somehow, you felt your heart slammed a single beat against your chest.

"No kidding!" Uncle Fern laughed. "Sometimes, the junkyard gets visited by some God-awful, overly face-powdered men who claim to be _ghost hunters_." He air-quoted the last two words. "Acting like some aliens. They even looked like they'd been soaking in snow. It's the funniest shit I've ever seen in my entire life."

You lowered the antenna and tucked the walkie-talkie inside your bag. "Do I get to have a warranty in case this one gets broken?"

"This is a _junkyard_ , (Nickname)." Your uncle was one of the few people who called you by that, since you had been disgusted by the longer version of your name. "You don't get warranties here. It seems like you forgot the first rule of Junk Club."

"But it's fifty dollars." Your eyes drifted over the vehicle plate which his uncle jabbed a finger at that read 'NO REFUNDS!' spray-painted in a screaming color of red against white. You turned to him and pouted.

He reconsidered for a minute. "Although... I may give you one free repair." He grinned, flashing his missing teeth. He lightly tapped on your head with his palm, getting your attention when you'd almost drowned in marveling at the transceiver. "Why did you wanna buy that transceiver, anyway? It's supposed to have a pair."

You smiled at him and shrugged. "Don't know. I guess I kind of missed talking with people."

"You think someone will reply on the other end? And no one in your farm is cool enough like me for you to get _any_ single transmission, lassie."

You rolled your eyes. You hated it when you get called by that; it rolled off the tongue like an insult to you. Your uncle had dropped the word to make you seem to give up. He himself knew the story why - the last time you had been called by that nickname was from a boy, a classmate, in your seventh grade. He had pulled on your leg and snickered at the reddishness of your red hair. A few minutes later, it ended with him losing one of his front teeth when you decided to settle the bullying with a fist to his face. After that day, all the boys in your class, and in the years that followed, started avoiding you in fear of losing a perfectly white tooth.

You decided to head home after that, taking your share from the wages - though admittedly, you took a quarter from your cousin's share, who was an employee as well. When the junkyard's metal gate closed behind you, you had made sure to clutch the bag with easiness just so your uncle wouldn't see that you were infuriated. If he ever did, however, he might have given you an extra hour to waste.

When you got home, the first welcoming message that you received were your mother's, chattering on and on about how you had arrived home late. Your father was absent from the sofa in front of the TV, which was playing live broadcast soccer, and you suspected he was in the garage, away from bothering you. You rubbed your eyes and placed your coat on the rack. You had heard of the same chatter before, and it always concluded with the same reason.

"Uncle Fern," you simply said. "Junkyard. Errands. Don't worry, I got paid as usual."

Your mother nodded her head in a sense of apology, but sighed in disappointment as if to say, _here goes Ferdinand again; typical_. It had been the same routine again and again, and the family had forgotten the last time you had any excuse other than pointing to your uncle giving out errands like a commander in war. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she asked you, "Did you use the money for anything?"

A pregnant pause.

"Well?" Your mother continued to ask.

You pulled your school I.D. over your head and placed it on the cabinet table by the front door. You pursed your lips for a second. "Yes," you said, licking your suddenly dried lips. You faced away from her to avoid slipping the truth about where you had used the money for. "I did. I used it for food - lunch food. It was delicious."

She didn't believe it for a second. But you were a good liar – you’d lied many times about any avoidable topic ever since that one incident with the death of your pet goldfish who lived in a literal bowl for soups - but refused to lie when it came to your after-school whereabouts. There was no use to lie when your uncle was the overseer of their farm. After a second of silence, she finally gave in - "Okay then," she said, supposed to be followed by another question, but noticed her daughter's rush and so she decided to hold her tongue - and you headed straight to your room in the attic, where you were better locked away from anyone in the house.

Your spider cobweb-littered room was not the most comfortable place on the world, but this was where your childhood both started and ended. On those days, your room had never given you a wave of nostalgia let alone a whiff of melancholy since it was nothing more than just your habitat. It had an eerie, welcoming atmosphere, and it had been the same since the beginning of high school. You took a look around: wooden frames that your father had nailed in to hold the entire room, a roof that looked as if it was about to collapse, all set up over outdated posters of different artists and marker graffiti on the wall, disorderly dispersed piles of clothes, and a strange odor of a mix of vanilla candles and barbecue chips. It looked exactly the same as the lone wolf, teenage girl's cave in the movies, but you refused to be called so.

The hand-held, portable radio transceiver was taken out from your school bag, along with the brown bag that it was placed in, your pencil box, a bunch of other stationery, and a minuscule first-aid kid that you had squeezed in "in case of emergency". You placed it delicately on your bed and reached for the screwdriver on a table of your own accord. The screwdriver seemed to be looking over the transceiver as you turned it over and over on another hand to analyze its structure, its details, and even the tiniest dents on the surface.

When that wasn't enough to satisfy your doubts about the transceiver's condition, you picked up the black-inked marker on your work table and scribbled your observations directly on the wooden walls of your room. With shaky fingers, you held it firmly on your hand, turned the switch to turn it on, and pulled its antenna up, extending it enough to at least catch the slightest signals.

The first sound that came out was the same sound as their television set when it was delivered to their living room and turned on for the first time. It gave off a heavy water flow-like sound, or something like a sharp hissing, similar to the waterfall that you and your family visited in your childhood. You sat on your bed for a while, the transceiver on one hand near your lips and the screwdriver clutched in a fist on your lap, for a considerable amount of time, as if waiting for something. The Christmas lights on your walls blinked. Other than the electric cry coming from the object on your hand, you could hear your own breath.

Finally, you pushed the button on the side and said, "Can anyone hear me?"

When you released the button, the hissing sound returned. You thought, _would anyone on the other side of the radio transceiver have heard it?_

Again, there was silence on your radio, and you were pulled back into your lonely universe.

You sighed with a sense of disappointment, but you had expected it in the first place. Fifty dollars for a measly walkie-talkie all gone to waste. Somehow, the hissing managed to annoy you in an unspoken way, and you were tempted to throw it against the wall. Even the Christmas lights faded its color for a while and represented the void vividness of your thoughts.

And then it happened - the first strange crackle. This sudden anomaly of a noise came out scattered at first, like multiple child-safe exploding fireworks on the street grounds, then came a long, electronic beep. The latter sound was haunting, but enticingly scary. It lasted for two seconds before repeating itself once more. A few minutes after that passed when letters came out in different intervals, then became numbers. Soon, you could make out a single word or two.

You had not expected it to happen. After all, they lived in the middle of a farmland in Connecticut. Your walkie-talkie shouldn't be able to pick up transmissions - as your uncle had said, who knew electronic devices best - _especially_ at midnight when You knew you were the only owner of this kind of device in their area. It was the year of 1998, and not everyone had purchased walkie-talkies from the stores. It simply was a luxury... or that no one else considered it a decoration.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the incomprehensible language became comprehensible, but anyone could have mistook it for gibberish.

" _H_... _he_ ," it started, then followed with: "... _He_... hello? Hello?"

 _Shit_ , you thought, _should I say hello back_?

The crackles returned for a brief moment until the speaker emitted a human voice again.

 _Oh shit_ , you thought again, with a much more desperate tone in your inner voice, _someone is ANSWERING on the other side of the walkie-freaking-talkie!_

"...Unbelievable. Oh... GOD!" The voice called out from the speaker of your walkie-talkie. It was a man - you had presumed from the obvious manliness of it, plus he was in his late twenties - and he sounded oddly desperate. His voice sounded isolated, like in a room, and he was frantic. There was a hint of an accent, but you couldn't place what kind of accent it was with your finger. "I picked up this signal. Please, respond - do you copy?"

Your uncle would have known what to do. The respondent could have been someone in the junkyard trying to prank your. But then it was night, the junkyard's gates were strictly closed to anyone except your uncle - supposed it was your uncle, the voice did not sound like him at all - and all of the employees might have gone home. You coughed, your throat scratchy and airy, and the air in your lungs had suddenly increased in volume. Grasping the transceiver on your hand firm and tight, you swallowed an invisible lump in your throat, and took a deep breath. When it came out, you had accidentally released a sudden squeak.

"Is anybody alive out there? Don't stay silent, I'm begging you! Do you copy?" The voice asked once more.

No reply. Not yet.

You pressed the button.

"Hello. This is (Nickname). I can hear you, over."

On the May of 1998, your walkie-talkie did something weird: it contacted someone you didn't intended to reach out to, and you replied to the voice on the other end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - that was _extremely_ short! But this chapter was supposed to be the prologue, and I don't think AO3 offers "prologue" chapters (although you _can_ name the chapter as "Prologue", but it would appear as "Chapter 1: Prologue").  
> With all that being said, more hopes ~~that I can finish it~~ for the future!


	2. What the Voice Told You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while. This chapter will be full of conversations, so beware if you get easily bored of that.
> 
> I've revised some of the dialogues from _Symbiont_ and as well as the flow of the story, but hopefully that wouldn't divert a lot from the original canon. :)

At first, you nearly dropped your transceiver in shock when the voice spoke up. He would introduce himself as Dr. Martin Shepard, told in a voice with a thick and heavy accent of something You could not point your finger at. He said something about urgency, doctorates and a secret underground facility, and you understood it surprisingly accurate that you might as well be fluent in his language as well.

“Is anybody alive out there?” he had called out. The crackle of the transceiver nearly drowned his desperation. “Don’t stay silent – I’m begging you! Do you copy?”

“Hello. This is (N/N). I can hear you, over,” you had replied hastily.

In return to your answer: silence. Listening to the crackles, your thumb skimmed along the button of the transceiver.

And then, like a wind swooping into a room, it answered. “Thank God! A living person? This is incredible!”

Startled, the transceiver slipped from your shaky fingers and almost fell to the wooden floor. You caught it immediately with your foot. If it fell, it would have caught the attention of your parents, sending them knocking to your door in an instant. You wouldn’t have time to think of an explanation then, especially for the mystery of your missing dollars.

You pressed the button. “Uhm…” You chided awkwardly. “Did my uncle tell you to–”

You were put to an abrupt pause when the man spoke again. “Listen to me. Do NOT switch the channel.” _Channel? Now where did I hear that word before?_ “I’m not supposed to be in contact with the outside world. Once anybody finds out, both of us can get in trouble! A major mess!”

Your eyes turned to slits and you nodded, as if he spoke directly in front of you. “Okay...?” _What does he mean by channel?_

“And... I’m going to need your help,” he added.

“And I’m going to switch off if you don’t tell me who you are,” you replied.

There was scrambling on the other end of the line and you speculated he was in a rush. “No, NO! Don’t!” he exclaimed, followed by a silent “ _fuck_ …” and then a pause – you imagined the man rubbing his face with his hands in a sense of annoyance. He must have been annoyed because of you. You weren’t surprised. “My name is Martin Shepard. _Doctor_ Shepard. I’m a neuroscientist.”

Your eyes widened as you realized, your mind slowly coming to your senses, that you were talking to an adult. A fully-grown adult man! You couldn’t place a person in your head whom you knew had a similar transceiver like you. Besides, other than your school teachers, your parents, your uncle and his junkyard employees, you knew no one else. Despite living in a small town, you hadn’t been going around to meet people unless you were asked to.

For now, you were safe from being stalked and killed by someone you personally knew.

But only for this moment. At least it wasn’t one of your uncle’s junkies spying on you.

He chuckled as he muttered the last word. He hesitated for a while before speaking again. “Neuroscientist… Well, at least, not really.”

 _What is he talking about?_ your eyebrows nearly stitched themselves to each other, fingers clawing the table in curiosity. “What do you mean by that? By ‘not really’?”

He sighed, his breath echoing into a growl. “It’s not easy to believe my story and it’s not easy for me to tell it either, but…” again, he paused. His conversation with you had a barrier that wasn’t only just their distance, but their trust. It didn’t flow easily without hesitation and doubt. “…shit. I should trust you. I just don’t have any other choice, do I? Apparently, there’s no one to trust but you, either.”

You rolled your eyes. It’s not like you had a choice, either. He seemed desperate and needed a favor.

“Well… listen. I work at a governmental laboratory. It was called ‘Shelter M-2’. It’s a top-secret facility.”

“Where–”

“No, no! Do NOT ask me where this place is. Someone could be tapping on our conversation and I do not think you need to know it. You could have somebody beside you, listening to our conversation.”

You looked around you, but beside the lingering presence of loneliness and the darkness of your room, you had no one to share his uttering with. “No, nobody’s with me right now. It’s just me.”

“Still, you shouldn’t gamble on your life like this.” There was the sound of rushing and rustling. Shepard must have been trying to find something. “You picked up my signal, didn’t you? That can only mean one thing: this lab is very close to you. Too close. You have to be very careful.” The urgency in his voice was distinct, but he kept a calm and cool demeanor.

You groaned in reply. “Look – is this a prank?” It was already creepy enough that whoever was on the other side had the other pair of walkie-talkies as you, but it was getting _eerily_ creepy that he was close.

“You think it’s fun flirting with death?” he retaliated in response. You noticed the hint of an even more annoyed tone in his voice. “No. This isn’t a prank. I wouldn’t lie to you. Everything I’m saying is true, from my first words to my last. So, listen, whoever you are–”

“(N/N),” you said. “I said my name already.”

“…(N/N).” He repeated. “Sorry. Listen, I don’t have much time. None of us do. Something is happening in this laboratory. Something dreadful. This concerns everyone – millions of lives are at stake. The laboratory is developing a very dangerous virus. It’s supposed to be some secret research project for military purposes... and then it leaked in the lab, forty hours ago. This warfare virus is special. Not just a new flu strain, but it’s so, so much worse.

The virus excites the host organism’s primitive reflexes – fury, hunger, cruelty, desire to kill. Not only does the virus strike the human nervous system, destroying them, but it makes the carriers infect healthy hosts. We called it ‘aggressive infection’. The infected doesn’t wait around like cattle to infect other people. It’s like wildfire. He seeks the victim out on his own... and...” His breath hitched.

“There’s a lot of staff in the lab. Not all of them got infected in the beginning, but those who absorbed the Z-01.21 warfare virus went mad and began to hunt their colleagues down. Others went insane, craving human blood and flesh. Only a few hours later, it struck everybody... It’s the _god-damned_ weapon of the devil. Even the atomic fucking bomb was more humane than this.”

You bit your lip, almost hesitant to take a pencil and jot down everything you were hearing. It was bizarre. It was just like hearing your classmates’ ideas after a sleepover watching horror movies. “So... like _Dawn of the Dead_. No way.”

“Disgusting as it is, I have to agree on that. The virus is extremely viable and propagates rapidly, like those weird zombie movies. But that’s all I know. I was just a newbie here, and no one even called me by my neuroscientist title. I’m the last human in this shelter who can still think.”

For a moment, you had forgotten how to breathe. “And what part do I play here?” you asked.

“I want you to help me keep these secrets.” His accent seemed to seep through the nervousness. It took a while before the static came back, indicating he had dropped a finger on the button of his radio. Meaning, he had hesitated, again, to add more details to his words.

Or something else. Who knew.

“Right when I found the transmitter, I lost my discretion. One thing you should keep in mind in an apocalypse, you shouldn’t steal from a dead body. Judging from the bite mark on my left hand, I’m doomed to become one of them within 36 hours. The virus got into my bloodstream.”

“Holy SHIT?!” You stood up from your chair, nearly hitting your knee on the table. “You’re _dying_ and you’re only telling now?!” You turned your head toward the door and made sure that none of your parents’ footsteps were walking toward the room. The last thing you would have wanted was your father coming into your room with his shotgun.

“Jesus, calm down, (N/N).” _So, he remembers my name_. “That is my fault. I should have said it from the beginning.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Suddenly, everything felt awful to your. You felt a hundred times shittier than from the beginning of their conversation. “So... who bit you?”

Shepard chuckled. As the minutes passed by, the radio crackle seemed to become less and less of a nuisance. “Doctor Johansson, a cute and shy young lady... at least, in the previous life.” He seemed to be hesitant in narrating more details about you. “When I had just started to work here, she was the one who took care of me and introduced me to the staff. It’s important that when you start afresh in a new workplace, you have to know everybody. Know their names, know their faces. It becomes handy in death, because their poor souls can only rely on you as the last person with the memory of them.

And now I’m that one person who has to hold the memory of everyone. Doctor Johansson left me more than a memory... she turned into a bloodthirsty monster and left her tooth marks on my wrist.” There was fumbling on his side of the radio. “There’s always fun in an ironic twist of fate.”

“That isn’t funny, idiot.”

“I know.”

“And now you want _me_ to be the last person with the memory of you?”

“More than that, actually. If you don’t want the burden of that, I need your help.”

“Wow, consider me stoked,” you said sarcastically. “Why didn’t you call the authorities?”

He groaned. “I told you, didn’t I? You can’t trust anybody, at all! If you try to call the police, no good will come. Whoever was responsible for the leak, they had insiders everywhere. When all of this started, those fuckers decided to sweep everything under the rug. Locked us up in here and left for dead. ‘Witness elimination program’, they called it. Electricity, communications, and even water was cut off, the exit doors were locked, and the code red program was activated.”

You awkwardly nodded in response. “That... that sounds like hell.”

“Worse than hell. When the program started, we couldn’t get in touch with anyone from the outside world. No one was coming in, either. We thought it was just a simple accident within the lab, and the reason why no one was helping was because there were more important issues than the survival of a bunch of scientists dealing with a spilled Erlenmeyer flask,” he remarked.

You recalled the one time you spilled your test tubes during your Science class. You remembered how the mixture of water and fish sauce slowly leaked through the table, your classmates shrieking in questionable fear, and you stood by the side in awe. You thought it wasn’t an important issue, but everyone made a big deal out of it.

“Those who left us here thought they had cut the lab off completely from the outside world,” he continued. “But they were wrong. They’d forgotten about one thing. You can’t lock scientists in a secret underground facility without expecting something hiding under their sleeves. We had backup generators. However, a repairman who serviced our equipment told us that not all of them were switched off.”

“And?” you asked. “Isn’t that a good thing? That means you can get out, right?”

“ _That_ , and the system will open the vents for oxygen intake from the surface.”

“Then the virus will get out through the air ducts,” you muttered, but loud enough for Shepard to hear. “To the population.”

His voice hummed, and then it wavered. Both of them turned silent. The deafening pause raced between them as the horror soon washed onto their faces, especially you.

“Whoever used the generators to their own advantage... they knew, those selfish pricks,” he uttered. “They knew we had a generator. It would have been better if the virus only spread inside the lab without those stupid vents to worry about. I’m not sure how correct my calculations are, but they may open tomorrow, or – as the technician claimed – in a fortnight. I was not very close with the repairman, but he told me this before he died. I have no reason not to believe in him. Either way, we can’t delay.”

You tried to recall the beginning of their conversation. Something about neuroscientist, trusting, and... “Didn’t you say the laboratory was underground?” you wondered.

“It is,” he quickly answered. “But the vents in the lab are near surface level. If we can close it just before it fully opens, then we might have a chance to prevent the planet from becoming a horde of zombies. We don’t want that to be the surprise gift for the aliens if they decide to visit Earth.”

“God, stop joking already.” At that point, you felt like you were being pumped with adrenaline. “I’m not letting a virus wipe off Earth. You and I both don’t want that. So, let’s start working.”

“Thank you,” he told you. “But I’m hurt and infected, and right now, I feel as if my head is spinning. It’s difficult to think; all my thoughts are jumbled. I’m trying very hard to fight this virus.”

“You should rest,” you suggested. It wasn’t the worst idea, but it wasn’t the best either. Surely, he had a better idea than you, but at least you gave him your piece. “I want to help you, but not when your entire brain is too tired to think.”

Shepard’s line emitted a sound that was between a clogged breathing and a choking throat. “I-I shouldn’t…” He coughed in between words.

Your grip on your radio transceiver tightened. “Shepard?”

A throaty “thank you” replied to you back, and the linger of hope nearly disappeared from your eyes. “(N/N), listen to me,” he coughed out. “My time is rapidly running out, but at least now I have some hope. I’m ready to jump with joy but my lungs are closing in on me…”

All of a sudden, on the spur of the moment, he yelled in a bone-shuddering pain, and you were met once again with crackling radio silence. Your thumb, which had been twiddling on the button of the radio back and forth since the beginning, loosened its grip as if for the first time.

“Shepard?” you called out. A crackle answered you back. “Doctor Shepard?”

You were alone again.

“...Shepard?” you repeated.

And another radio silence.

Downstairs, your mother snapped you back into your reality. Your body jolted in surprise, almost as if you hadn’t been hearing your voice in an extremely long time. Your face, which was in a near-permanent look of concern and surprise, slacked with it. Disoriented and fuzzy, you stood up and walked to the door without opening it.

“What is it?” you asked, nearly shouting.

“Dinner’s ready!” your mother answered. “Haven’t you tidied up yet?”

“Well, no...” You looked at yourself, which was in a state of being a pig’s house, and wondered how long you had been talking to Shepard. You looked like a singed cooked rat. For the first time you felt more aware of yourself and felt... missing. The dullness of your room, the dirtiness of your clothes, the walls seemingly about to crash at any moment. It was empty, like your mind. Shepard’s abruptness left you a cliffhanger.

You took one last intense look at the radio transceiver by your desk, which you had switched off beforehand.

You opened your door. The smell of food triggered the hunger in your stomach, and you didn’t realize how long you had been hungry since the transmission.

“I’m coming!” you called.

That night, you had a close encounter of a possible third kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-edited on April 15: I tried to make it longer, but I think it's better off like this. I'm trying to make longer chapters but time is really just getting in the way!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> HI, JUNE 1 UPDATE: I've decided to make this work a Reader/Dr. Martin Shepard so that I can be flexible with the main character's personality. It wasn't working out before thus my very long hiatus, so I hope this one will work out!


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